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The fourth Friday of the month, Alan Bug - Diego’s boss- hosts an after-hours event where the top fighters at the top ten gyms in the city are pitted against each other. Ten boxers. Ten fights. The winner moves up. Diego fights for Al - every month, no contest, although they do keep trying. Al makes a joke about Diego mopping his floors, but they both know what he means is ‘wiping the floor with upstart punks”.
It’s big money - a majority of Diego’s income comes from Al’s top tenners. Diego’s never ranked lower than 5.
But - he’s never made it to number one.
(It’s not a thing he’s hung up about, it’s not).
He stays in the petty competitions that pepper the rest of the month, but the final big brawl... Diego wants it. He’s placed second this month - the highest he’s ever managed - and first place...
It’s right there.
Diego’s squaring up for his first fight when he sees him.
And while Diego would like to say he was hard to miss - well, that would only be half a lie. He’s not hard to miss. He stands out like Gods among men. It’s just -
Diego very nearly did not recognize him.
His double-take earns him a solid punch to the jaw, but even that isn’t enough to fully steal his attention away from Klaus.
Tall, lean Klaus, with his wide stride - those spider legs of his covered neatly in starched, pressed slacks that fit him the same way Diego fits inside of him ( tightly ). And if Diego tugged at the collar, he’d find the brilliant, purple bruises he left this morning, to match the color of his shirt. His beard is trimmed and neat, all fine lines and the faintest hint of grey catching at the corners of his mouth (he’s too young, to be going grey, but it suits him. God -it suits him). He’s styled his hair, combed it back and shaved down the sides and he looks---
He looks like a man .
He looks like a dangerous man.
His presence is commanding, demanding attention and bleeding the faintest tickle of fear in the back of any onlookers throat. Death did that, Diego thought. Animal instinct, that gut-reaction. He barely blocks another hit as he watches Klaus cut through the crowd, both hands shoved into the front pockets of his charcoal slacks. He turns, just a little, and catches Diego’s eye. Smiles a little when Diego has to throw himself back to dodge an elbow.
He raises a brow and licks his pink lips. Well ? Diego can almost hear his voice. The emphasis and lilt. God - Klaus is pretty . Didn’t know I came to watch you get your ass handed to you, Gogo.
They’ve never come to watch him fight. His siblings. None of them. Some of his old Police Academy buddies used the gym and happened to be there during his fights, but no since Eudora has come to watch him.
And yet...Klaus is inexplicably here on the biggest night of Diego’s professional fighting life, looking grown and fierce and proud and Diego punches the punk from Tony’s Eastside Rec Center so hard, it’s a single-hit knockout. His bloody smile is most likely frightening, but Diego can’t help it. Klaus...is here.
The Ref’s calling it, even as Diego’s backing away, the sweaty small of his back bumping the ropes. All he can see is Klaus, with his cat-like grin, grey eyes light with delight and violence. Diego licks the corner of his mouth where the skin is split, blood pooling his mouth. He turns to spit, and when he looks back up?
Klaus is still watching.
***
Diego was the first fight of the night, and there are three more matches before his next. He’d been too preoccupied with the thought of finding Klaus to really clean himself up, but the majority of the blood is gone from his face, and there’s really nothing to be done about the sweat sticking to his temples.
He spots Klaus near the make-shift bar, holding a foggy plastic cup in hand. Diego can almost hear the ice-cubes clink against each other, as he watches Klaus stare into the cup, a smile curling up his mouth. He’s nodding, talking to some punk from another gym. Diego’s seen him around before, never cared to catch his name - Jimmy maybe, he looks like a douche bag Jimmy. He’s not a fighter, maybe just a fan. Diego doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He’s too preoccupied watching Klaus’ pale lips form his name, as his eyes move to catch him through the sweep of his dark lashes. “There he is,” Klaus is saying, eyes lighting up.
For Diego.
His feet must carry him, must cut across the floor because between one blink and the next, he’s there, grinning up just a little at his brother. “Hey. You’re here. You’re here . Why are you here?”
Hey . Hey. That’s all he has. Hey, and why are you here?
Klaus feigns a slow hit across Diego’s jaw, barely grazing his skin, with the same hand holding his plastic cup. Diego wants to catch his hand and kiss his palm, for fuck's sake. What the hell is this? “Came to watch you get popped in the mouth in a different room, I guess. The change of scenery is nice, but if this is the level of effort to be expected, I’m leaving.”
He’d never leave, and Diego wonders at how he knows it for truth.
“Luther never gets those kinds of hits in.” There’s none of the knee-jerk grumping Diego usually can’t help but prickle with; he’s just smiling. Klaus is here. And he looks good . So good, in fact, Diego momentarily loses his fucking mind . “You get all dressed up for me, baby?” He’s already slipping his hand around Klaus' waist when it fucking hits him that this --- is his brother . They are in public. This isn’t --- this isn’t the alley behind the club, this isn't it a safe space. This is televised (on the local public access channels, but it is televised). “I---I uh. I like it.”
Klaus isn’t upset about Diego’s wandering hands or fat fucking mouth if the curve of his smirk is anything to go by. Diego just hopes he hasn’t already introduced himself as his brother, yet. “You know I love a reason to stand out in a crowd. If I knew these pants would get me this much attention, I’d have worn them sooner.”
Diego snatches the cup from his hands, braces himself for something, and finds that it’s just water. He ignores Klaus’ exasperated eye roll and knocks the whole thing back, ice stinging the split corner of his mouth, before tossing the whole thing in the nearest trash can with awkward, boxing-gloved hand. “So who's your friend?” He doesn’t look at the douche-bag as he asks, just holds Klaus’ gaze. He refuses to pitch a fit. The coffee shop had been a fluke and Diego hadn’t---reacted in an appropriate fashion.
“James,” Klaus introduces. “A former client of mine. James, this is Diego.” There is no identifier added to that, but given the way that Diego’s slowly wrapping himself around Klaus - body betraying his firm decision to not be a jealous asshole - an identifier is probably not needed.
(Except for the fact that Diego’s his brother. They’re brothers.)
Client . A client could mean a lot of things. A client could mean someone who bought drugs off Klaus. Could mean someone who picked him up on a street corner. Could mean someone who tucked singles in his socks because it’s all he was left wearing by the end of his song.
“It’s uh...It’s been a few years since I saw you working the Docks,” James says and Diego feels his blood pressure double. “You just...You look incredible, Klaus. You look...different.”
Klaus snorts. “Well, I’m fully clothed this time.”
And yeah - Diego doesn’t like him. Diego doesn’t like him. Standing there, in his fucking khakis. He’s wearing goddamn boating shoes. They’re not on a goddamn boat. His button-up inexplicably has a banana embroidered onto the pocket and he just...looks like an asshole. He looks like an asshole, and Diego wants to knock his fucking lights out. He looks like an asshole who's seen Klaus naked. Diego’s barefoot in nothing but his boxing shorts, compression shorts under that, and the black and red robe Al slipped over his shoulders, baring the Gyms name, and Diego’s title. He’s a little sweaty, hands still bound and restrained by the gloves. And he is in the exact mood to break some jaws, conveniently. “The docks?” he asks, through clenched teeth, whole body vibrating.
“Strip club down by the river. James liked the skirts almost as much as you do, Gogo,” Klaus supplies kindly before Diego can do anything like put James head through a wall. “Well James, it’s been swell but you should probably go now.”
With a skittish smile, James nods. “Yeah. Yeah - I’ll just...Go. Over.” He looks across the room, where the next pair of fighters are being lead to the ring. “There. You just---look amazing, Klaus. It was great seeing you. Glad to see you’re....” His gaze skitters nervously over to Diego. “Happy.”
Klaus is laughing even before the little douche bags made it ten feet away. “I gotta say Gogo,” he hums, turning in Diego’s terribly familiar grasps. “You’re kind of turning me on right now. And these pants ain’t hiding anything.”
Diego sighs with his whole body. Klaus isn’t lying. He’s fucking hard beneath those horribly well-fitted pants. “I recognize that your past lends itself to these kinds of incidents,” he says diplomatically, with closed eyes and clenched teeth. “But I withhold the right to fucking hate it.” He’s already ushering Klaus toward an exit, tension coiling in his shoulders. He’s a fucking asshole, okay. He’s an asshole. He’s an asshole with limited mobility in his hands currently.
Klaus, to his credit, lets himself be manhandled through the crowd. “As my brother?”
“Sure, Klaus. As your brother.” Say it a little louder, Diego thinks, a terrible fucking thrill going through him. What an awful curse, he mourns, as he shoves Klaus into the stairwell and slams him square against the wall. “You really do look fucking incredible but like - you don’t gotta dress down for me. Wear whatever. It doesn’t matter.” Diego’s typically more interested in getting Klaus out of his clothes, these days.
“I didn’t want to embarrass you,” Klaus admits, so candid and open, right there two inches from Diego’s face. What’s he supposed to do? Not kiss the shit out of him? When Diego finally lets him come up for air, his lips are bright and brilliant pink, swollen and bruised. “But I mean---shit. If I knew it would get me this kind of attention, I’d have done it sooner.”
“Attention,” Diego echoes, dumbly, as he drags his mouth down Klaus jaw. He’s limited, in these fucking boxing gloves. “Baby, you---” No one knows Klaus is his brother here. This is fine. This is fine. Diego just yanked Klaus out to maul him in a stairwell, but it’s fine. “You got my attention.” He’s dragging his eyes down Klaus long, lean body, thinking - he’d hardly need his hands if he got on his knees when the stairwell door springs open.
Al stares for a moment. A long, pinched-mouth moment. “You’re up in five, Di. You left the box. Refs gonna wanna check your gloves.”
There’s really no way to deny what they’re up too. Diego has Klaus pressed firmly into the wall, legs tangled, mouths red. Klaus looks curious. “How long does it take to check the gloves?
Al frowns into his own generous jowls. “Thirty seconds. Less than a minute. Why?”
“Then we still have four minutes left.” He doesn’t wait for Al to decide to leave, just pulls Diego right back in. They meet in an open mouth crush and Diego thinks - this is what winning feels like.
It’s rough - Diego’s blood is still singing from the fight and the misplaced rage and the way Klaus' hands move over his body. It’s rough and handsy, dirty raw up against a cement wall. And when he comes away, Klaus comes away panting . Diego grins against his breathless mouth, startling as the stairwell echoes with a series of sharp, pointed raps against the door. “That's me.”
“Go get 'em, tiger.” Klaus snorts and punches him faintly in the pec. “I’ll be watching.”
And that’s the thing, if nothing else, that puts wings on Diego’s feet. He’s floating, all stupid and spacey. “Thanks for coming.”
“Yeah, yeah. Thank me later, hot stuff,” he slaps Diego on the ass and wipes his other hand through his disheveled hair. “I want to see you punch people in the face. ” He winks and grins. “ Do it for daddy .”
Diego flushes so immediately hot, his vision goes white and static at the edges and he feels dizzy . Breathless. Stupid . “No,” he says gruffly, Al calling from him only feet away. “ Hard no.”
And in true Klaus-fashion, Klaus cups his cock - hard - over his trousers. “Hard something, for damn sure. Now quit busting balls and go bust some skulls.”
***
Al hovers outside the locker rooms where the refs are waiting. “That uh---” He scratches at the bald patch atop his head, shiny with sweat and fluorescent lighting. “That there. Well. That was your brother.”
And yeah - Diego supposes he forgot that Al’s met Klaus before. “No, it wasn’t.” Diego’s first instinct is, absolutely, to lie. Except Al’s met Klaus before, second-handedly. Taken a handful of calls, too. Shit. “We’re adopted.” And God - that doesn’t sound great. “Our mother is a robot!” Also...not great. Their childhood is tragic. “Our father was an asshole?”
“Look. I’m no stranger to childhood traumas. I’ve played therapist to a number of fellas that fell outta fucked up family trees. Boxing is therapeutic, ain’t it? Cathartic. But I gotta say; this is pretty fucked, Diego.” Al stares at him for a long moment, mouth pinched, but he ends it with a gusty sigh, and slaps a hand on Diego’s shoulder. “You’re a dark horse, son. But I suppose there are worse things. Didn’t yous kids all spontaneously burst out of the womb, like aliens or some shit?”
“Something like that.” Diego’s fairly certain it wasn’t anything so traumatic, although - he’s not a woman, and he can’t gauge finding yourself suddenly giving birth to a baby you were not pregnant with fifteen minutes ago, so who is he to talk about traumatic?
Al nods and squeezes his shoulder. “It was nice of him to come. Your family is kind of shit.”
And that’s that. That’s....that.
(It’s a relief.)
***
Diego’s floating. Diego’s on fire, but he’s floating and light. The ref manhandles his hands, checking for any alterations and Diego’s floating .
He’s shoved into the ring, just as Klaus folds himself through the crowd, pushing to the front. Al’s rubbing his shoulders with gruff, meaty palms, and Klaus is blowing him a kiss and Diego is fucking floating .
He’s thrown forward as the ref blows the whistle and Diego’s never felt so ready in his life. He takes a hit, but he hardly feels it, his whole body alive and bright. Klaus is cheering from the crowd, long body leaning hard over the rail dividing the audience from the ring. He’s whooping, throwing his hands in the air and he looks so pleased, he looks so proud .
Do it for daddy.
And just like that - he’s two for two, single-hit knockouts.
He can’t hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears as the Ref slaps the mats and calls the fight. He’s two for fucking two - single hit down . He spits his mouthguard out just so he can fucking smile and Al’s walloping him on the back and shouting in aggressive Italian and Klaus---
Klaus is leaned over the ropes, right there - right fucking there . Diego takes his face between both gloves and kisses the fucking shit out of him. It’s the thing to do. Right there, with the ropes digging into his stomach. And two hundred people watching.
Klaus gets a hand in Diego’s awful, sweaty hair and yanks him back just enough to press their foreheads together. “Soft no?”
It’s hot. The air is hot. Their breath, shared between them, is hot. The ugly, sticky thing bubbling in his belly, right beside the terrible filthy good thing Klaus put there, is hot. Klaus palm where it curls over Diego’s burning red neck is hot.
(doitfordaddydoitfordaddydoitfordaddy)
And God - how long has Diego spent trying to please their father. But their father is shit - pleasing Klaus is so much easier . His brother. This is his brother . They’re fucked. It’s fucked. But Klaus is here, all dressed up and looking so thrilled and Reginald certainly never put himself out to come and see Diego fight. Klaus is here for him. The terrible, filthy good thing Klaus put inside of him, Ben put inside of him, weeks ago - months ago---wins.
“Soft no. Soft maybe?” Diego wonders if Klaus feels the shudder that chases up his spine, and imagines he must if the spread of his smile can be trusted. “Medium soft yes. I reserve the right to change my mind.”
Klaus huffs. “Of course.” His hand slips from Diego’s neck, down the salty, sweat-soaked skin of his bared back. His thumb hooks into the waist of Diego’s shorts, and he grabs Diego’s ass roughly . “How many more fights? To win?”
“Eight.” Eight fights to the top and he’s two for two. Diego feels good . “My next one’s not for twenty.”
“You ain’t leaving the pit, kid.” Alan’s there, close enough but making no move to seperate them forcefully. “Keep your pants on.”
“I can do a lot of things with his pants on,” Klaus tells him, even as he leans back to hold the rope up so Diego can slip below, and out of the ring. He moves with Diego, fluid and catlike, slipping his hand around Diego’s back, and his thumb into the waist of his shorts. He’s pushing a water bottle into Diego’s hands and Diego’s just--- floating. He wonders if this is how Klaus feels when his feet don’t touch the ground.
Technically speaking, non-fighters are not permitted in the pit. Trainers, coaches, anyone on the roster. Alan lets Klaus into the pit, slaps a black and white, Hello My Name Is sticker on his chest that just says Coach, and leaves it at that. Everyone knows Diego doesn’t have a coach, doesn’t have trainers, doesn’t have a team he works with.
Diego’s very much known for being a lone wolf.
And then there’s Klaus - dark and pretty. Diego wonders what they look like together. He wants to know .
Klaus pats the sticker, with a wicked little grin. “Does this mean I get to tell you what to do, you think?”
“Try it and see.” Diego isn’t a good boy. Not like Ben is. Not at all. That’s not how Diego and Klaus play. It’s not what they’re about.
(do it for daddy)
But maybe - Diego’s still learning what they’re about
(do it for daddy)
Klaus is still grinning, even as he bites his lip, and Diego’s thinking about all the times he’s put Klaus on his ass for smiling like that. Shit.
He skips the med check - the last fighter didn’t even get a chance to graze him after all. The Pit is just the spare locker room, with sections for each gym to dress and wait between matches. Klaus leads him to his corner, shoves him down in a chair and yeah - maybe that stupid sticker does give Klaus a little precedent because Diego doesn’t even let Al get so handsy. “Hands,” Klaus says, as he crouches before the bench - between Diego’s knees. And that’s not fair. That’s just not fair.
But he holds out his hands anyway. Klaus unlaces the gloves with long, nimble fingers, and Diego lets the heat rest in the pit of his stomach, in the burn of his thighs. He’s bled through the wraps in one or two places - he hits hard, every time. Klaus cuts the wraps free with the little scissors Diego keeps in his bag. He’s not particularly gentle with Diego, he’s not soft or delicate. He drags the pad of his thumb over the worst of it - a split between two knuckles. Diego hisses, and Klaus pushes a little harder into it.
“ F-f-fuck,” Diego sputters, when his dick twitches beneath his shorts, beneath the fucking jockstrap, the cup. “Klaus.”
But Klaus is undeterred. He grips Diego’s hand harder, grinds all the fine, small bones therein together, just enough to sting. “Eight more fights,” he says, and Diego feels dizzy . “You win ‘em, Gogo...I’ll give you anything you want.”
Fuck me, Diego thinks and feels the thought pop and crackle, a new, spitting flame underneath his skin.
He couldn’t tell you what is face does, what algorithm plays there - but Klaus sees it. Klaus reads it. His thumb slips in the tacky blood that stains Diego’s knuckles. “You gonna tell me what your fighting for?”
“Anything?” Diego replies, and lets his fingers be tangled with Klaus’. “I mean...Anything?.”
“Really doubt you could surprise me with anything, princess.” They’re holding hands. They’re holding hands, in the locker room, surrounded by men Diego fully intends to punch in the face. (If Klaus calls him Princess ever again, he’s gonna be one of the men Diego wants to punch in the face - a brother or not. Whatever else they’re doing - or not. Just----No.)
Before Diego can answer though, there’s a dervish snort from the other side of the lockers. “Hey, no girlfriends in the pit. Bitches on the bench, where they belong.”
It’s fucking Matthew Meathead from the big corporate gym on the Upper East Side - number one on the docket, and the only fighter Diego’s never managed to beat. Of course, it is. His life is a TV series full of tropes.
Klaus rises to his feet so finely, so fluidly - Diego thinks he sees Meathead take a short step back. His shadow stretches across the locker rooms, moving almost independently from Klaus lean body. “He called me your girlfriend, Diego. You hear that?”
“He also called you a bitch.” Klaus will mind himself - or not. Meathead’s not going to call foul on Diego if he gets his ass kicked by ---by Klaus . Or rather - someone who looks like Klaus. Someone easily dismissed. “Give him a break.” They’re still holding hands, and Diego’s not about to stop for some fucking meathead. If Klaus wants to hold hands - Diego’s gonna fucking hold his fucking hand. “He’s probably never had a girlfriend. Couldn’t tell the difference.”
Meathead stars forward, but Klaus is already turning, the tangle of their fingertips remaining until he’s just out of reach. His feet, very noticeably, are not touching the floor and it gives him two or three inches on the guy. “Easy there, champ .” Klaus is smiling, bright eyes glittering, and Diego admits - if he ran into him in a dark alley - he wouldn’t fuck with him. “Right now, right here, you’ve got rings and rules. Keep that in mind when you leave tonight.”
“You threatening me, faggot?” Meathead starts forward, but Klaus isn’t startled, and he doesn’t move. Meathead bares his teeth.
“Obviously, you fucking idiot.” Klaus is comically incredulous as he looks back at Diego, a wide what-the-fuck look about him. There’s something chaotic about his eyes, something Diego should put an end too right now but he can’t. It’s magnets and moths and it doesn’t make sense, but Diego feels a little strung out for it, a little wasted . It’s the pretty sweep of his eyelashes, and the lavender of his lids, so pale and perpetually bruised. It’s all the places Death has touched him, and the violence in that, just below his skin. Diego should pull him back, say c’ mon baby . Or even knock it off dude . But he doesn’t. “Now get out of my face, or the next time I see you, I’ll break both your hands and you won’t be inside this ring for the better part of a year.”
The Meathead huffs, a red bleeding stain spreading hot across his neck. A vein throbs at his temple. Diego is riveted and terrified . With his chest puffed out, he pushes in on Klaus who doesn’t sway, tethered to earth beyond any mortal plane. “You got a lotta nerve---”
Klaus just smiles, all Cheshire-cat and cream, as he turns away - leaving his fragile, Cheshire-cat spine exposed. He is unafraid, and Diego can trust that.
Meathead makes a noise and steps back into their space. “Listen here---”
“What the fuck!” Klaus says loudly , just as Meathead reaches for him. He startles upright and spins around, firm thighs bumping Diego’s knees. “I’m not here to play grab-ass buddy. I said no!”
“What, no! I didn’t---”
And Diego knows he didn’t. Diego fucking knows and it’s hard to keep the grin off his face, hard to keep Klaus’ grin from catching. Ben’s told him about Klaus’ bullshit games, his little tricks and light of hands, but it’s interesting to see first hand. He sells it well, crowding backward into the spread of Diego’s legs, clutching at his lapels like some scandalized maiden.
Diego hooks an arm around Klaus' hips and lets his nails dig possessive little crescent moons into his thighs. “I don’t know what kind of rules you got over at your fancy East-side gym, but we don’t take too kindly to that,” Diego offers, laying his head against Klaus side. “Why don’t you keep your hands to yourself before somebody breaks em’, yeah?.”
The ref - coming to check the commotion, frowns. “Back to your bench, Meathead.” He looks at Klaus. “Glove checks in five. Get it done.”
“Bitches to the bench, right Murray?” Diego calls, earning a snort from Klaus. “Right where they belong.”
“Glove check!” The ref calls again, chasing the Meathead out of the room.
Klaus does his gloves with nervous hands, following Diego’s quiet instructions to the letter. It’s...cute, Diego thinks, feeling very stupid as his brain stumbles over the word. It’s soft . Diego goes to glove check, and Klaus finds his seat in the stands and now...now is really not the time for soft.
But Diego is floating.
Not every fight is clean. He takes a few hits, sees a few stars. But he can hear Klaus voice in the crowd, that delighted ripple of laughter. And the taste of blood in the back of his throat fuels him, it eggs him on. They don’t all drop easy, but they do all drop and then it’s the final fight. It drags - hit after hit and Diego is heaving, chest on fire, skin alight. His ribs ache, and he’s bleeding, at least one tooth is loose, but he hasn’t hit the mats all night and he won’t start now. He won’t. No shocker; it’s Meathead and Diego thinks about Klaus, Klaus fucking him raw, taking him down. The sharp, shock of the thought? It’s that. It’s that .
Do it for Daddy.
Diego takes the mother fucker out .
It’s a slow-motion hit. Diego feel sit, the drag and slide of his glove as it pulls against flesh. The way Meathead sways and shifts, the snap of his head to the left, the spray of blood, the way it splatters bright across the ring. Meathead struggles, pushing up off his gloves but the Ref’s down with him, slapping the mats and he’s not getting up. He’s not getting up. It’s the longest ten seconds has ever felt, he’s sure of it, and when the whistle blows----Diego can’t breathe.
He won.
He won.
And he looks at Klaus - across the ring, sitting so prim in his front-row seat. He's not standing, he's not up and rowdy with the crowd. Al's in the ring, jostling Diego as the ref holds his hand up, victorious. Klaus is sitting, prim and pretty and he looks so pleased. He looks so fucking pleased, looking at Diego, mouth spread in a smirk, long legs stretched out before him. Diego watches that pink mouth move, and form the same words tattooing themselves across his brain. Do it for daddy?
Yeah, Diego thinks. Yes .
***
It takes Klaus a second to get back to Diego. The house boys - all his gymrat buddies that frequent Al’s- are vying for attention and Diego...well. Diego likes it. He fucking won. He won . Al’s sliding a fat wad of cash into his hand and Diego just wants to be home, face down and---
Klaus snakes himself to Diego’s side, curls himself around him, and Diego has to remind himself - they’re in public. Crowded public. But it’s hard to care with Klaus whole body rubbing up against you like an especially affectionate cat. Klaus kisses the side of his sweaty hair and Diego thinks---
He’s not fucking his brother.
He’s not just fucking his brother.
He’s---with his brother.
(and it’s still the healthiest relationship he’s ever been in)
***
Al kicks Klaus out of the locker room while Diego showers and dresses and that’s probably for the better, given the undercurrent heat blistering the air around them It’s a combination of giddy anticipation and filth and Diego thinks---he keeps---
He keeps waiting for someone to pop out of nowhere and tell him no. That it’s wrong. That he has to stop. He keeps waiting for someone to rain on this parade, because really...they should. It’s fucked up. It’s sick. It’s probably sick.
It doesn’t feel sick.
It feels safe.
Diego holds onto that feeling and lets the rest of it rot.
***
Klaus is waiting for him at the backdoor, leaned up against the bricks in his pretty suit and Diego has the sudden and visceral need to say something stupid like - it would look better on his bedroom floor. He’s in his street clothes, sore but clean and Klaus just---looks so damn good, and Diego...Diego gets distracted.
There’s something about filthy back alleys that just...work for him. They work for Klaus who looks even more pristine by contrast, the fabric still crisp, even against a backdrop of New York dirt. Diego kisses him, gets him right up against the wall and kisses him the way he couldn’t in a crowded boxing ring. He gets as much of himself inside Klaus and thinks about the fact that they---
They work. Like this. They fit.
“Take us home?” Klaus asks, pushing up off the bricks.
Home sounds good. Better than it ever did, really. Diego wants to be home right fucking now. He fishes his keys from the pocket of his jeans, notices the bulky absence of his wallet, and realizes--- “Shit. I forgot my bag on the bench.” An irrational bubble of rage gets under his skin. He wants to be home , goddammit. “Let me---”
But Klaus is already there, with that easy half-baked smile of his turning dimples up at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll grab the bag. You pull up the car.” He slips past Diego even as the door schniiiiiiicks shut, leaving Diego standing there with no real way to refuse.
It’s shockingly easy to do as he’s told, and he makes a mental note to bite Klaus later. It’s exactly that, what he’s thinking about - where he’ll bite. The under-curve of his left ass cheek takes precedent, right where it melts into his thigh. Diego would like to bite him there - so he’ll feel it every time he sits down. It’s exactly that when someone shoves him forward, face-first into the car. Diego’s already squaring up when a fist slams into his tender jaw.
He’s reeling, getting his bearings straight because he’s fucking use to getting hit okay? Both lines of work lend themselves to getting punched in the face. He’s just not used to sucker hits.
“Not so hot now, huh kid?”
Meathead. It’s Meathead. Because his life is tropes .
Diego gets his feet right and throws his hands up. He’s not about to start running his mouth like some dumb ass. But before he gets a chance to throw a hit, Meathead’s stumbling forward like someone kicked him.
Because Klaus kicked him.
Of course, he did.
He grabs Meathead by the hair and yanks him straight off his feet, dragging him around toward the car like he’s nothing. Klaus is frightening like that - the contrast between the way he carries his body - keeping it small, curled in on itself, hunched - and what it can do. But Diego has seen what Klaus can do, he’s found himself held down by the secret sea of strength in those arms. He is unsurprised. Meathead’s spitting, kicking, hands scrabbling to get free of Klaus but Klaus---
“Hey - no kidnapping,” Diego warns because he has priors and Al would fuckin’ kill him. “Seriously Klaus. I draw the line at unlawful detainment. ”
Klaus flashes him a rather tight smile, even as he yanks the car door open and----
Slams Meathead’s head into it repeatedly .
Which - fine. They were taught to utilize their surroundings. Still. “Hey--- watch the fuckin’ car. I just vacuumed in there.”
Klaus stops for a moment, leaning into the door so the Meatheads forehead is caught in place. He’s mostly out of it, flailing weakly. “Really? No cries of protest? Not gonna tell me to stop?”
“I’m not your keeper, and he’s a fucking dick.” And - Diego suspects he couldn’t make Kalus stop if he wanted it. But in all honesty --- Diego knows he should try. He should. But he won’t because he wants to know what the sweat shining at Klaus temples tastes like, wants to know how the violence taste on his tongue. And the guy did attack him from behind in an alley. Besides; Klaus did warn him. As far as Diego sees, this isn’t unreasonable at all. “You did say you’d break his hands the next time you see him.”
“I did say ,” he reminds Meathead and hey - that’s fair. But Meathead looks rough, with a sharp purple line developing even as they speak, across his face like David Bowie during the Ziggy Stardust days. Klaus drags him up, even as his own feet leave the ground. Meathead’s out of it, it, struggling blindly even as his eye swells and darkens. “I’m a man of my word, Gogo,” Klaus tells him loftily, as he props Meathead up against the car, and----
Slams both his hands in the door. Repeatedly.
There’s a pop, and a snap and an audible crunch. Meathead shrieks and throws his elbows, but Klaus just lets him fall to the ground in an agonized heap. He won’t be throwing any hits for months, Diego thinks. And he’ll never fight the same again.
“You’re gonna get me benched,” Diego grieves, although one could argue that Diego hadn’t done anything at all, really.
There’s no blood, for which Diego is grateful. Klaus crouches down, the bend pulling his pants up enough to reveal the fine, pale bones of his narrow ankles and Diego thinks - Klaus is scary . “He won’t tell,” Klaus says, with quiet and intense certainty. “Because I’ll rip his spine out and use it to floss my teeth, right buddy?”
Meathead groans, glaring through a bruise and a grimace.
“I’m a man of my word, after all.” He slaps Meathead’s face, a congenial sting. “So why don’t you take your cotton candy ass home before I---”
“Aww, leave him, alone baby.” Baby . Because the violence in Klaus' eyes calls to Diego like nothing else, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t doing it for him. “He won’t bother us anymore. Stand up, Murray.” Meathead---doesn’t. But Klaus gets him there with rough hands and the side of the car. “Now I know you know who I am, buddy. Oh, I know Al plays it pretty tight with my last name. Thinks I’ll scare off the big hitters. But you know who I am.”
“One of those Hargreeves freaks,” Meathead manages, through a swollen mouth. “One of those fucking psycho kids.”
“All grown up and beating your ass,” Diego agrees, with none of the spit or ire that would have plagued him before. Before Klaus and Ben put to order his priorities, it would seem. Diego doesn’t care that this motherfucker thinks he’s fucked up. Thinks he’s a freak. He is, at the end of the day, and no amount of do-gooder boy scout behavior will ever change what he is. He’s a Hargreeves. They all are. “Bet you thought you were real tough, knocking me off the roster all these years. Telling yourself - I beat one of those Hargreeves kids.”
“You’re monologuing,” Klaus cuts in and yeah, Diego supposes that’s fair. “Can’t I just break his knee cap? Dad always said monologues are for the bad guys. Are we the bad guys. Gogo?”
“I was setting you up to emotionally traumatize him, why you gotta bust my balls?” Diego rolls his eyes. He was monologuing though. Best to keep that shit in check. “As I was saying - you know who I am. But do you know who he is?”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have interrupted,” Klaus interrupted - again. “Carry on.”
“Some faggot---”
Klaus punches him in the ribs, hard and with zero warning and Diego honestly appreciates that about him. The chaotic energy is highly effective. “You got a big fucking mouth for someone who just lost to a car door. I’m Klaus Hargreeves - you know, the one who can see dead people.”
“You do more than see dead people,” Diego argues. Klaus is so much more than that. And it’s important to be acknowledged.
“You’re his brother?” Meathead does manage to stand up on his own then, as he backs himself harder into the trap of the car - like the big gay incest is more of a threat then Klaus breaking his kneecaps. People are fucked.
“Yeah, motherfucker. And he’s got three more. ” Klaus pauses at that. “Although our sisters are away fucking scarier man.”
“Anyway,” Diego grins, feeling inexplicably fond in a brotherly way that wars entirely against everything happening below the belt right now. Speaking of the belt, Diego pulls a smaller bird knife from the harness at his waist and throws it blindly behind himself. The whistle is familiar, a soothing little lullaby that shakes the stress right out of him. “Maybe you think about that next time you wanna ambush me outside of the ring. It’s like Klaus said - in there? We play by the rules. But I don’t need any of my family to take your ass out, like this.” He catches the knife with all the drama and flourishes Klaus loves so much, right before it stabs Meathead through the eye.
“And if that’s not enough to persuade you,” Klaus offers, stepping slightly to the side just as---just as----
Fucking Ben appears----
“This is the one with the tentacles,” Klaus explains, to Meathead, who looks appropriately pants-shittingly terrified.
“What the fuck, Klaus!” Ben is---Ben is wearing Diego’s pants, and holding a banana. “I thought you were on a date with Diego.”
“This isn’t a date,” Diego argues because Diego would know if it were a date. Someone would have fucking told him. “I think I’d fucking know if this was a date.” Right? The twin incredulous stares he earns tell him this is not the right takeaway. “Uh.”
“He sucker-punched Diego,” Klaus waves an errant hand at Meathead - who flinches hard and scuttles back across the car. “I was making a point.”
“Oh.” Ben hands his banana to Klaus, who takes it without so much as even looking. Little Ben in his sweatpants, with his messy, sleepy hair, and bare feet. He steps forward, crowding Meathead into the car and Meathead---is six inches taller, has an easy sixty pounds of muscle on Ben but he---
He pisses his shorts.
Diego thinks that’s a bit of an extreme response before he remembers---
Well. Ben’s been publicly dead for years. And Klaus just summoned him with his brain.
“Don’t do that again,” Ben says, very sternly. There’s mustard on his face, but Diego’s not going to point it out. “Understood?”
“Und---Understood,” Meathead nods, eyes averted, piss puddling around his sneakers. He stands there, staring at them with a fat lip and a black eye.
“This is where you go,” Diego offers, taking pity on him. He’s sort of pathetic. And probably concussed.
“Jesus Christ,” Klaus huffs, lighting his cigarette with the same hand holding Ben’s fucking banana. He pushes both the lighter and the fruit into Diego’s hand, balls up his goodbye fist and punches Murray square in the face. It’s a clean hit, and Murray goes down, lights out, in a heap. “That it?”
Ben takes his banana. He looks at Diego, the corner of his mouth turning up just enough to dimple his cheek a little and Diego inexplicably fucking blushes . Maybe he has let Ben run a little wild. “I’m going home now.”
He’s barely popped out of existence when Klaus speaks, silver smoke curling from his in spirals and ribbons. God - his hair isn’t even out of place. His shirt isn’t even wrinkled. He looks as pristine and pretty as he did stepping into the gym. He looks good. “Oi. He could have ridden with us.”
As Diego’s gaze traces the lines of his body, they settle on his Goodbye hand, and the split in the knuckle bleeding sluggishly down his long, thin fingers. “Yeah. We’re not going home.”
The cigarette bobs, where it hangs limp between his pink lips. “Where the fuck are we going?”
Diego thinks it’s going to be a fucking miracle if they make it out of the goddamn alley. He can’t adequately communicate this to Klaus though, can’t adequately communicate a lot of things. “Was this a date?”
Klaus rolls his tongue along the top line of his teeth and Diego genuinely appreciates the consideration. “I suppose not.”
“You suppose not.” What the fuck does that mean?
“It means...” He shrugs, sucking on the cigarette, shoulders hunched and eyes averted and Diego----frowns. He shrugs again, two times in a row like a nervous tick Diego wants to shake right out of him. “I don’t know! No - no not really. I mean you come to watch me dance. It’s like that.”
“Watching me punch people in the face turns you on?” The sad thing...the honestly sad thing...is that Diego is kind of into it too.
“No---Well, I mean yes obviously.” Klaus rolls his eyes and shakes his head, a single, rebellious curl tumbling across his forehead. “But I just...thought I’d come to support you. Since you support me and shit. You know. Brotherly support.”
Diego slams both his hands down on Klaus' shoulders. “I swear to God if you shrug one more fucking time, I’ll---”
“You’ll what !” Klaus' voice is aggrieved, and Diego just---fucking shakes him. “Hey! I am frag -ile !”
Diego’s already laughing, mouth spread wide in a smile as he backs Klaus up against the brick wall of the back alley behind the gym. “You did not get dressed up all pretty for me and come here for brotherly support.” It’s hard to kiss Klaus when he’s smiling so hard, but he sort of manages as Klaus back hits the brick. “Fuck off . Fuck off with that.”
Klaus deflates, sinking into the stone, held aloft by Diego alone. He laughs, just a little huff of breath, and the fine lines that crinkle the corner of his eyes make Diego feel crazy . Crazy forever noticing such a thing about his brother. His brother .
Klaus didn’t come here in any kind of brotherly way, and Diego’s not feeling especially familial either.
(And he had thought once upon a time, that family was everything. Fealty. Honor. Loyalty. He thought that family was the only way you could---you could---you could ever really---
He hasn’t felt this crazy, this crazy stupid bright, but mostly stupid since---
Since---
Eudora .
And Eudora is a bruise on his heart that will never heal
But it sure is nice to just feel this way....again.)
“Fine,” Klaus says like he hasn’t upended everything in Diego with the wrinkles at his eyes. “Maybe my intentions aren't entirely pure.”
Like Diego ever doubted it. “Are they really ever?”
And there’s just something soft about the way he’s looking at Diego, that makes Diego feel dizzy from the bottom up. “Sometimes,” Klaus says, with a painful amount of earnest eye contact. But that soft gaze wanders, and Diego doesn’t mean to lick his lips, but it happens. And Klaus watches. “But uh. Yeah. Mostly not.”
Matt Murray from the upper East Side Gym is still a half-cognizant puddle on the ground behind them. Diego’s bag is snagged on the back door. He’s got a bedroom two lefts and a staircase away. But he’s got Klaus right here, pinned against a wall looking real fucking pretty and not here to be his brother. They’re not making it back to the mansion.
And Klaus must see it in him, must feel it in the way Diego’s coiled tight. He puts his hands on Diego’s hips, and pulls him closer, gets them together and there’s just something about the presumption in it, the insistence, the rudeness. It makes Diego grit his teeth and push right into it.
Klaus laughs, the peek of his clenched teeth almost too much. “We gonna make this a thing? Fucking around behind our respective workplaces?” He rolls his hips and Diego’s gonna---he’s fucking---he could---
“Yeah, but---but---I got a bed here,” Diego reminds him, tilting his head toward the door. He’s stuttering, he’s shaking. Klaus never seems to care.“I--I---”
He kisses him. Klaus catches his mouth open, and slides right in, as he lets his hands wander, and dip into the back pocket of Diego’s jeans. And when he can’t breathe, when Diego forgets to let him, he kisses his way across Diego’s jaw, licks the scar above his ear. And when he speaks - it’s the softest brush of lips, and a whisper Diego can feel on his skin like Klaus knows anything louder will spook him away. “You win for me, Gogo?”
He’s soft because it’s soft; it’s Diego’s soft yes . Shit - and he’s not ready. He has issues with Reginald, he does. God - they all do. And he’s even ready to admit they make him irrational. But he’s not so certain he’s ready to be so broken, this traumatic cliche. He’s not so certain he’s ready to admit it. Except - all Diego’s ever wanted was to win for somebody. For someone to see him. Appreciate him. Cheer him on.
And it’s Klaus.
It’s Klaus.
Diego nods, as static pops in his ears.
Klaus breathes a hot shuddering ghost that strips Diego raw. “You do it for Daddy?”
“ Yes .”
Klaus kisses the little stretch of skin below Diego’s ear, and drags his teeth across Diego’s jaw and Diego? Diego holds himself very still, with his eyes closed and his fingers digging deep into the bony cut of Klaus' shoulder. He’s not sure what Klaus is going to say, has no metric to compare, and he doesn’t know how he’ll react, panic or pulse.
But Klaus just kisses him, and Diego lets himself be pulled inside.
***
It’s shockingly goofy , how they fall into bed together. It’s silly - tripping down the stairs together in a tangle of sloppy, smile-stained kisses. They’re laughing and it’s easy, and Diego thinks with the same measure of startling clarity; this is my brother.
It’s his brother's hand sliding down between them to pluck at the buttons of Diego’s jeans. It’s his brothers hand pushing down his zipper. It’s his brother's hands leading him across the room, his brother's legs tripping in the dark, his brothers body him, bouncing both their bodies against his squeaky, narrow mattress.
It’s his brother.
Diego makes a noise - a broken, strangled noise, and Klaus leans back from where he’s biting at the fucking turtle neck. “What?”
“Nothing,” Diego denies immediately, but no-no. “It’s just I---Do you---” But he’s already lost Klaus’s attention, and his stomach jumps as Klaus pushes up his shirt. “Are we---We’re brothers, right? You and I. We’re brothers.”
Klaus stops, immediately, the full curve of his spine straightening suddenly. He’s still got both hands bunched in Diego’s shirt though, and the cold airbrushing his bare belly makes him feel strangely vulnerable. “I mean ---Yeah. Yes. Of course. Why? We are .”
“I know,” Diego nods, fumbling. “I know. I know. Just, I---” For a second - just for a second - Klaus didn’t feel like a brother. It wasn’t the way his hands had touched Diego - although that certainly isn’t brotherly either. And it wasn’t the familiar way he’d mapped Diego’s body, although again - not brotherly. No...no. It had been the curl to his smile on the left side, and the way he’d looked up at Diego through dark lashes. It was the laughter they’d shared, falling all over themselves to get here. It was the giddy anticipation, the weird little thing Diego’s heart had done when he’d first seen Klaus from the ring.
It wasn’t brotherly. What Diego felt - wasn’t brotherly.
Not in any way that made sense.
“Don’t ask Ben that,” Klaus warns, with a frown, the weight of him reassuringly real where it settles down on Diego. “It would upset him, I think. He’s been weird lately, you know. Just a little. Nothing’s changed for him and I think---”
“What about you,” Diego asks, without really meaning to, brain latching on to the latest words. Nothing’s changed for him. For him. For him . For Ben . “What's changed for you?”
Klaus freezes, mouth a little open, a little wet. He holds Diego’s gaze though, and it makes Diego squirm. Carefully - he shrugs .
Diego punches him in the arm. “Oh fuck you,” he grumbles, heart in his throat for reasons he won’t verbalize. “Ben’s my brother.”
“And?”
“You’re my brother too.” Diego’s hands come to rest on Klaus’ hips. “You’re my brother too.” Even as he says it, he’s pulling Klaus down to grind against him, in an easy familiar rhythm. And he thinks about Klaus' mouth, shaping the words ---- the fucking---
Do it for Daddy.
And it’s just--- he likes Klaus in the fishnets. And he likes Klaus in the cut off tops. He likes that fucking dress he wore. He likes the glitter and the lace. But there is something undeniably virile about Klaus in this dress shirt, with his sleeves, rolled to his elbows, and the smooth easy swell of his forearms pale and marked in the blue whorls of his veins and the faint black marks of fading tattoos. He looks clean-cut like the edge of a knife. Respectable, and dangerous. He looks...in charge .
And Diego lets himself sink back into the bed, and close his eyes and try very hard, so very fucking hard, not to forget where he is, or who he is, or who he’s with.
“Open up, Princess,” Klaus teases, and Diego can hear the edge of something in his voice, something made of gravel and glass. “C’ mon Gogo, open up .” He lets his hands slip down the bottom of Diego’s thighs, and he grabs his ass so hard, he can’t help the way his body jerks, thrusting forward, it’s----
It’s fucking filthy. Slutty. Awful and terrible and Diego’s so fucking hard, he’s so fucking hard and he just wants Klaus to say it. Just to be sure---just to be sure it’ll fuck him up as much as he thinks it will. Just to be sure he’s not ready, as he suspects he isn’t. He wants Klaus to say it because he can’t, fuck---fuck---he can’t.
He can feel it all over his body, tying him up in knots, tying him up just a little bit tighter and he sinks back spine stiff. He just wants Klaus to say it. Just---just to know.
Klaus curls over him, careful not to touch him anywhere but where their hips meet. His hands sink into the pillow on either side of Diego’s head and when he lowers himself down a little closer, Diego holds his breath.
“C’ mon,” Klaus says, dragging his nose along the scar above Diego’s ear. “Open up.”
“Nnnngh,” Diego manages, terrified of himself and the way his heart’s beating to fast, the way his skin is too small, the way his lungs won’t work, the way he really just---he’s so fucking hard it hurts .
“Do it for daddy.”